


This Is Not My Beautiful House, This Is Not My Beautiful Wife

by TheFourMarys



Series: My Beautiful Reward [1]
Category: Anaconda (The 100), The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25686748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFourMarys/pseuds/TheFourMarys
Summary: Clarke Elizabeth Tallulah Griffin presents,The-Teen-Lesbian's-Twelve-Step-Guide-To-Blowing-Supermax-Macking-On-Hot-Chicks-Finding-Your-Daughter-Losing-Your-Dad-And-Starting-A(nother)-Revolution-Before-Dropping-To-A-Dead-Planet-In-A-Century-Old-Tin-Can.On Your Birthday.On Your Period.May Becca Bless. May Callie Protect. May We Meet Again.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Harper McIntyre, Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Clarke/ALL The Ladies, Clarke/Women, Echo/Clarke Griffin
Series: My Beautiful Reward [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876549
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Prologue: She Lives In This House Over There, Has Her World Outside It.

Birthdays suck.

Clarke had never seen the point of birthdays in a fascist society as chokingly controlling as the Ark. 

(What were you going to do? Have an illicit second serving of protein mush? Pop out an airlock for a spacewalk around the grounds?)

Feelings on the matter were somewhat hardened by the unfortunate and undeniable fact that her most recent 'happy' days had been anything but.

On her 11th birthday her father sat her down and explained his religious beliefs to her. That her father had any kind of faith was something of a surprise to the resolutely-non-religious Clarke but was not a problem for her. At least not until Jake expanded on how his (banned) religious beliefs played into the disintegrating political and cultural (and, worryingly, the physical) status of the Ark. Her birthday was made when her Daddy calmly illustrated how little time the Ark had left.

On her 12th birthday her father committed treason by hijacking the Ark-wide Linkfeed to calmly explain to everyone else, exactly what he'd told Clarke one year before. Shumway and the elite Guard unit came for him that same night. 

Her 13th birthday there was the whole Ginny Cheng incident. 

Which. We. Do. Not. Talk. About. 

None of the above compared to her 14th birthday which saw Clarke somehow leading a gloriously doomed, quasi-religious youth rebellion against the Ark’s ruling junta (she’s still only vaguely aware of how she came to be Spartacus), which led to the past year spent in debilitating isolation in the SkyBox and a slow but crushingly inevitable countdown to her 18th birthday and her date with the airlock known to all as the Hellgate.

And now, today, shortly past 4pm on her 15th birthday, Clarke is hurtling toward certain death on a dead planet in a very hot, very loud, 140 year old tin can she has little to no idea how to control, at the end of what was now certifiably the worst day of her life. 

AND SHE HAS FUCKING CRAMPS.

Yeah, as a concept, she thinks bitterly, birthdays can kiss Clarke Griffin’s ass.


	2. And You May Say To Yourself "Well, How Did I Get Here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for allusions to sexual assault and abuse of power.

"Prisoner 319… face the wall”.

No. This is wrong, Clarke knows. Very wrong. Firstly the guard wears the more militaristic garb of the night shift, so if they are still on duty then it is before 6am and Hi-Sec prisoners are not moved in off hours, especially not in and out of isolation. Secondly, even that prick Jaha wouldn’t float her on her birthday, surely? And three years before her execution date?

15 today, woo! Just the second trip-round-the-sun day spent in splendid isolation.

The third indicator something is seriously off about this whole business is who is binding her arms behind her. While she wouldn’t put it past Jaha - or Kane for that matter - to send the traitor Miller to move her just out of spite… he is still a fracking cadet, so why is he the one now pushing her face into the black chalk dust of one of the Earthscape drawings on her wall, as the tight steel cuffs bite home on her wrists?

It's a small thing to worry about, she realises, seeing as the guard is leading her to an uncertain fate. What does it matter if it's Miller or the more likely Shumway, Reagan or Dillis? Still, it vexes her even as the nervous teenage guard jerks her away from the wall hard enough to draw a reluctant yelp from Clarke. 

“Prisoner 319, you are being transferred. You will act appropriately and make no noise. In accordance with Rules of Incarceration, section 193 of the amended laws of the United Human Confederation, Year 68 P.B. Any resistance to my legal authority may be met with deadly force”.

Clarke isn’t listening. This is far from her first time at this particular rodeo. She is drawn to the realization that her face has been smushed not into one of her many Earthscapes that cover almost every inch of the dull, life-sapping walls, but into her treasured portrait gallery. Her father’s image is smudged where her face had been rubbed, obscuring his chin in a dusty black mess. 

Next to him the smudging has partially obscured her mother’s increasingly harsh and distant visage. Clarke still isn’t sure if she’s adequately captured her mom’s recent… inflexibility? - A good enough word, she guesses, covering as it does Abby’s gradual retreat into her Supreme Council persona - a judgmental technocrat, removed and dogmatic - and her open disdain for Clarke’s ‘lifestyle choices’.

The other two portraits below are untouched and she takes a last look at her captures; Of her iso-neighbor, the precious girl in the cell next door, whose face she’s never seen, who’s urgent words of love and defiance, whispered through a tiny floor-level vent have kept Clarke going through the darkest times. And the young ‘un - Charlotte - who, after her father, is probably the one Clarke misses most.

The walkie pings twice and finally Miller is pulling the door open and hustling a painfully blinking Clarke into the harsh glare of the top gangway of the 6 storey SkyBox prison wing. She glances down to the atrium floor and wonders not for the first time how her society, the last of Humanity no less, has become so sick that the 300 cells are in constant use even in the face of the Ark’s ugly and preposterous kill-at-will capital punishment policy.

Clarke stumbles as Miller stops sharply and side-shoves her into the cell known ominously as the Boiler Room. Clarke feels a sick jolt of panic as she realises where they are. 

It's no secret - to her generation at least - what can happen in the silence once the heavy door closes behind you. What happens in some guard's - Dillis in particular - “interrogations” of many women and girls, some as young as herself. Or at least to those who don’t enjoy her status and rank. (Clarke's hated “Princess” status has some ugly benefits in this damned mess of a society she was born into, she is well aware). 

She formally retracts her previous flippancy about the guards. Far better Miller here now than Dillis or Reagan. Or even Shumway (though his tastes are more for psychotic violence).

Clarke is bundled into a chair, hissing at the strain the sudden downward motion places on her bound arms. That does draw a mumbled apology from her captor and erstwhile comrade, at least. Miller unlocks the cuffs, explaining quickly that it's only a temporary reprieve before they have to move again.

“Bite me, Nathaniel”, she spits, deliberately using a variant of his name she knows he dislikes.

"Clarke…”

She looks up to see who’s spoken, only now realising they weren’t alone. 

The Engineer. The petite, dark girl from Mecha-Station.

“Reyes, right?”, she asks, only partially interested. She concentrates instead on rotating her shoulders and trying to soothe her chafed wrists.

"Raven, yes”, she said, taking a seat in the opposite chair. (Clarke notices the two had at least tried to calm her nerves about this room's reputation by placing her in what was obviously the Interrogator’s chair with Raven in the prisoner’s seat. She appreciates their consideration).

The smaller teen gently touched her wrist to draw Clarke’s attention back to what was clearly a moment of some urgency.

"I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen in the next 15 minutes and it’s very important you listen, understand and follow the plan exactly. Okay?”

Clarke is irritated by Raven’s manner. The older girl's delivery is deliberate and simple and soothing in a way her mother had taught Clarke to speak with patients who had come through great trauma. Sure, she’s been in isolation for a year but this is more than that. This is condescension bordering on grief-counse… A sudden fear grips Clarke’s chest.

"Is Charlotte…?”

Raven smiles and squeezes Clarke’s hand. More Human, less scripted.

“She’s fine. Misses you. Asked me to tell you your farts smell like a bus load of skunks on a tour of a… I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I promised… diarrhea factory?”.

Clarke smiles, relieved. “Not her best work. But she’ll get back up to speed when I see her. Can I?... See her?”, she is looking at both Raven and Miller in turn. “I mean, I assume you’re busting me out, not just taking me on a tour of the facilities?"

The lip trapped by Raven's teeth tells Clarke she's not getting a straight Yes/No answer.

“Busting you out, yes but.. other stuff too. Like, BIG stuff that I can’t reveal yet". 

Clarke sighs. "It's reassuring that my immediate future freedom lies in the hands of a damn Dungeon Mas..." 

She hisses and grabs her lower abdomen. 

Miller jumps up looking extremely confused and very nervous. It only takes Raven a moment to catch up.

"Ahh, shit... you have cramps?". 

Clarke's reply is just a sorry groan amid several sharp intakes of breath as she rides out another contraction.

"Well, that is some spectacularly shitty timing, Princess. Fuck… I have some naproxy but it's in my work jacket".

Clarke pulls a face at that. "Helpful".

Raven laughs apologetically. "Yeah. Sorry". But then she's all business again.

“Clarke. We have very little time. Listen to me now…”

Clarke nods and locks eyes with the older teen. Then she listens intently as Raven outlines how very shit indeed the next hour or two is going to be for her.

**** **** **** ****

(Soundtrack: Nina Simone - Sinnerman)

**** **** **** ****

They're at the door about to leave, when Raven catches Clarke's attention.

"Happy Birthday, Clarke", she says, sounding genuinely sad. "Welcome to the worst day of your life".

Raven steps out of the room first and immediately turns left past Clarke's (Ex?) cell. She clearly has her own exfil plan. Miller pulls the re-cuffed Clarke from the Boiler Room back out on to the landing, heading rightward to the sixth level guardroom. She doesn’t recognize who opens the security gate but he is young too. Too young to be a Guard. Down three flights of stairs on the ‘landslide’ then back in through security at the guard room on level 2. 

Wait. Wait. Two pings. Go. 

Dragged down the landing to the double doors behind the central dais, where that pompous prig Valentine loved to give his motivational speeches to the entire prison. Down the stairs to the main doors that separates the SkyBox itself from the civilian decks of Prison Station.

And they wait at the door. Then they wait some more. Miller’s tension level rises with every second, to the point where she feels his hand vibrating on her wrists. Clarke leans back off Miller and twists enough to look back past the stairs they just descended, through the single secure door into the ground floor of the atrium where the GenPop prisoners eat their meals (unlike IsoBlock VIP room service guests like her). She can see a digital readout saying 05:43.

Morning shift changes at 06:00 so yeah, probably a time crunch here.

Still they wait. Suddenly Clarke’s aware of another presence. She hisses as the cuffs bite again as she tries to see who has come through the side door to materialise in the blind spot behind them. She doesn’t know how to feel when she sees it’s Harper. Knows less how to feel - except breathless and... blushy - when Harper silently lays a strong, supportive, calming hand on Clarke's right shoulder.

Harper is hot. Hot and quiet. Self-confident. A mystery. A hot, steely, determined, strong gorgeous, enigma. Did she say hot?

Simultaneously Harper lays her left hand over Miller’s as it rests atop the hip-holstered walkie. Miller doesn’t look round, accepting her presence implicitly, indicating to Clarke that this is no coincidence. (Of course, Harper’s wearing of the Guard Corps blacks is just as indicative, but the sight of the taller girl making the enemy’s uniform… WORK, has Clarke’s brain momentarily incapable of any rational thought). Harper’s touch steadies Miller’s slight but constant tremble, at least. 

“Nate... Chill.”

Harper’s voice is authoritative and calming and soothing and sexy and she realizes with a start, the only female voice Clarke has heard for a full year - save ‘the voice in the dark’ of her Iso-neighbor, and Raven just now.

Damn, though, Harper is hot. She’s also 15 just like Clarke now is. Miller’s a year older she’s guessing… or maybe not because they were all in Charlie Pike’s Earth Skills class together. Whatever… neither of them should have this sort of responsibility. Which leaves Clarke staring at the cold hard certainty that she's the central player in a pretty big conspiracy.

But a conspiracy of whom? Not her Dad, certainly. Neither Clarke nor anyone else has seen or heard anything of her father in the three years since he hijacked the LinkFeed. Not even her Mom, she’s pretty sure. Although she’s not even sure if her Mom cares about that, so…

And it's definitely not her Mom behind the plan. Clarke knows Abby loves her, but they've not been close for a while and she's guessing the past year has only seen her Mom growing more loyal to the system her Council position serves.

The “Princess" of MedStation is not close with many. Apparently leading a revolution (even, with hindsight, a ridiculously amateurish one) can win you respect but not much affection. Thus it’s unlikely she has a powerful sponsor amongst her small circle of friends. 

No. There’s only one person with the quiet influence to execute what is looking like a very large operation amid such a suffocating martial regime: Vera Kane. Clarke’s happy at the thought. She’s missed Vera terribly. Her leadership and her surrogate motherhood. Her reassuring bosom and Herbig Brown Eyes.

Clarke groans as another wave of pain radiates through her abdomen. She stumbles a little, only to be steadied by Harper’s delicate-yet-firm grip. She holds in a yelp of shock when she feels her grubby prison-issue shirt tail pulled up and the sudden but welcome addition of Harper’s surprisingly warm hand rubbing soothing circles around her tailbone.

“Really bad timing, Cla…”

Two pings on the walkie and the door buzzes loudly as the magnets unlock,

“Go Go Go!”, Miller hisses. (Somewhat redundantly, Clarke thinks).


	3. Shoot Some Pool, Skip Some School, Act Real Cool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another very short (sub-) chapter. Not finding much time to write, but I'm wanting to maintain momentum. Hopefully more time to write at the weekend and I can post more reasonable length chapters. Maybe consider the last two stanzas and tomorrow's as a three-part 'Chapter 2'. Hope it's not too annoying for y'alls.

The closely packed group are through the door in an instant and back ‘landside’ in the civilian section of Prison Station. They’re also standing in the middle of what will be a very busy thruway, filled with swing shift workers, in a matter of minutes. Miller drags them into the brightly lit passage, guiding them to the left. Moving in rapid stop-starts, they stick to the shadows the 200 feet or so from the jailhouse door to the first major thruway junction where they duck into a deep well of shadows, their bodies pressed tight to the cold, humming wall. 

Miller turns the walkie off. No more help from guardian angels, then. Fair enough, Clarke, thinks. (Even if that does leave her in the care of the Benedict Asshole who led her strike team straight into the hands of his father’s Guard unit exactly one year before). She follows his eyes upward and sees the rear of the camera position he’s watching and guesses they’re waiting for the blinking green light to go red. So, maybe a guardian angel left after all. Seeing as it's probably not Raven, given her hands-on role earlier, she wonders if it might be Monty, the sweet stoner kid from Farm Station. Seems like his jam.

And then she can’t think again with the blinding pain and she’s down on her haunches, which she immediately remembers (from bitter experience) is a really bad position to be in with your arms bound behind you. The pain from both sources is strong enough to break her face out in sweat even in the frigid air.

“Miller”, Harper whisper-hisses, “get the damn cuffs off”.

And then her pained arms are free, though that’s only a partial relief, as it just leaves her mind open to the full spectrum joy of the fucking cramps now. At least it does until Clarke realizes Harper is crouched down next to her and she’s holding Clarke's hand and nuzzling her cheek to Clarke's sweaty, overheated forehead. And yeah... Yeah, that really helps, actually.

Harper draws Clarke back up to a standing position and pulls her into a tight hug and Clarke tries to focus on Harper's warm hand now back in its rightful place, soothing her lower back.

“I mean it, Clarke… really bad timing”.

And she knows Harper’s just trying to lift the mood, but she really can’t disagree.

“Alway has been”, Clarke grits out into Harper’s shoulder and she wonders if that sounded as bitter as it felt to say. “Every damn birthday I’ve had cramps. Including the starting-a-civil-war ones”.

Miller is trying to move as far away from the conversation as he can without stepping out of their roughly three square feet of shared shadow, leading Harper to lightly slap him upside his silly boy head. She makes sympathetic, sisterly noises as she holds Clarke.

“Eleventh birthday: First period. First cramps. Twelfth birthday: Crying all night. Thirteenth birthday: Pain so bad I couldn’t stand up half the day... despite what you might have heard about my party”.

Harper’s response is as economical as ever but no less comforting for that.

“Sucks, babe”. 

Miller steps back into their space. “Be ready. As soon as the patrol passes, look to the camera. Red on, go. Straight across the row and back into the shadows. Clarke, head down, Hair over face”.

Clarke nods, happy to have something else to focus on. Adrenaline is a welcome friend right now.

And then the patrol is there. Six armed Guards, stomping down 'Skid Row’, the main thruway of Prison Station, heading up to the Ring. The three force themselves back into the shadows as fast and far as they can and wait an agonizing few seconds for the patrol to march past, thankfully oblivious.

Clarke isn’t expecting it to happen quite as fast as it does, when Miller hisses “Red light! Go!”, almost as soon as the sound of the marching subsides. Harper has her arm around Clarke’s shoulders and she guides her with a reassuring force across the 30 feet of the waking, no longer empty thruway. 

Back in the shadows, they pant off the adrenaline rush that has them all virtually bouncing. Miller is looking down this quieter ring-route that will lead them out of Prison Station and on through the Russian sector, to it’s junction with MedStation. If they’re going where Clarke thinks they are, they still have some way to go.

Finding his target Miller walks down to the third stanchion on the right and reaches down into the shadows. He pulls out a Mecha crew jacket that has evidently been planted there by Raven and hands it to Clarke. It’s large. Bulky. A man’s hooded jacket that will swamp her completely. Though that’s probably the point, she surmises. 

On the front there’s a note stapled weakly over the name badge reading 'Wick'. ‘Breast Pocket' is all the well used scrap of paper says. Clarke reaches in and immediately regrets any harsh words she may have aimed at the little mechanic back in the Boiler Room. One precious, scarce and deeply, deeply beautiful Naproxy tablet sits in her palm. Old, chalky and quite possibly the greatest birthday gift she’d ever received.

Clarke is prepared to force the tablet down her parched throat dry but that less-desired prospect is alleviated by Harper passing her one of the three bottles of water stashed next to the jacket. It’s good water too! A 350R light grey - at most - and clearly from Alpha Station. The off-brown filth she’d been drinking for the last year wasn’t even legally obliged to be rated - meaning it had been recycled more than the 800 times permissible at the lowest standard by the Med Exec - so a ’tree-fiddy' was going to taste of unimaginable luxury..

Pulling the jacket (or, rather, the boy-smelling tent) around her body, she pops the pill and takes a big gulp of her ‘elite’ water. Clarke feels an almost immediate relief from the radiating pain and numbness. It will make the next couple of hours easier, at least, so never mind the almost zero chance of seeing any more medication today.

Miller has his hand on Clarke’s (still very sore) arm. “Job done”, he says. “Harper’s got you now”.

And with that, he’s away. He’s at the junction with Skid Row, checking his exit route, before Clarke’s voice holds him up. “Nathan”. He looks back at her, even if he can’t fully make eye contact. “Thank you”.

Which is enough, for now, for both of them. And if the burning hatred she’s felt at Miller’s betrayal for the last year isn't doused entirely, well... the fire recedes a little, at least.

“S’cool”, he mumbles. And then he’s gone.


	4. We Even Like The Same Movies. (No Damn Jedis Or Hobbits This Time).

**** **** **** ****

SOUNDTRACK: Pizzicato Five - Baby Love Child

**** **** **** ****

Clarke is happy to walk in trusting silence with her new sole guardian, especially after they cross The Prospekt into the outer section of the Russian sector, when Harper takes advantage of the quiet of this relative backwater (and probably the understanding that with the hood up the jacket makes Clarke look very boyish) to properly take Clarke’s hand.

They both know the risks.

While homosexuality itself is not illegal on the Ark, homosexuality before breeding might as well be. Deliver your one (and only one) infant tribute to the state - preferably before you turn 20 - and then you’re free to do as you please (well, once the state permanently mutilates your womb with a medieval IUD, of course). But even that's bullshit, because the Ark is a nasty, spiteful conservative place at it’s heart, so, while there are no actual legal blocks to being queer, every societal norm lets the gays know exactly where they stand in the social order.

Enjoying holding Harper's hand however, Clarke is questioning Raven's earlier insistence on the inevitable shittiness of today. Compared to how things looked at lights out last night, she thinks her life is pretty sweet right now.

'I'm glad you're not dead", Harper says.

Clarke laughs a little at the absurdity of their lives that that's even a thing her friend (maybe Girlfriend???? Eeep!) even feels a need to say.

"You too, Harp", she says with a returned, sheepish smile.

They can talk relatively freely because the Russian Sector has been all but abandoned since the second Monses epidemic of 72 and they know their way round. It's central position off the ring in the same quarter as MedStation and the main admin blocks of SciGov Sector, have long made 'Roos' a relatively autonomous hang-out zone for the Ark's Earthside youth.

"Who did die?", Clarke asks. She was in the SkyBox from mere minutes after surrendering to Miller Sr. and barring the day of their mass trial, she's been in an information-free zone ever since. She has no idea how confrontations in the other sectors went.

Harper looks away. "I was at Resyk", she starts. "Dillis and his unit came in hard and it was never a fight. Tally Youngblood and Steve Chen were killed instantly and your mom couldn't save Elias Rampalo."

The girls stop, stepping into the shadows again, even if the urgency of the moment is somewhat less on this overlooked corridor.

"I found out later that Atom's squad at the power station held out for an hour but lost Luke Brigg there and Marco Hallstrom died later in MedStation. Quinn Walker died leading a charge on the Oxy-Scrubbers. The Guard lost four in total. That was it".

Every name hits Clarke like a punch to the chest. It's stupid, she knows rationally, because she had zero input in the organisation of an uprising she had virtually no knowledge of just an hour before she had a gun in her hand and was (apparently) leading a squad of her classmates under vague instruction to 'take the Council chambers'.

Clarke catches Harper's eye and brings her absent gaze back to the moment. "Is it a really shitty thing to say that it could have been worse? I mean given how unprepared we were?" 

"No". Harper's answer is curt but confirmatory. It does nothing to mask the obvious bitterness she too feels about that particular day.

"Then there were the executions after the trial of course", Harper adds with a slight shudder.

"Shit", Clarke says with a sense of anger at herself, because how could she overlook that? "Who?"

Harper sighs. "Everybody sat in the box behind you at the trial. Godfrey. Stevenson. Tannenbaum. Wang. Both Cefuenteses. Cappelli. Milicic".

Harper gives her hand a supportive squeeze, knowing Clarke will blame herself. 

"Everyone over the age of eighteen, then. There's going to be no commutations. They're going to kill us all, aren't they?", Clarke says, as much to herself as her companion.

Harper just nods gravely, because no words are needed.

**** **** **** ****

Passing swiftly across a still sparsely populated thruway that Clarke blanks on the name of, they enter the better-lit and busier corridors of Clarke's home beat: Med-Station.

She could navigate this sector with her eyes closed but that idea's probably not for the best right now. They pass the Pathology Lab where Aalia Chatterjee is already at her desk. The clock above her head reads 06:54 and Clarke realises that things are soon going to get a lot louder and their anonymity a lot less clear cut, what with Spears or Ogden about to enter her cell for morning roll call. Clarke's sure the absence of the defiant finger she's offered both guards every morning for the last year will be soon noted.

She leans in to tell Harper when she feels the other girl stop and brace in fear. Looking up, Clarke is shaken when she sees the man about to pass them in the opposite direction: Sinclair.

"Miss McIntyre. My word, have you joined the Guard?". He's as affable and kind as usual - and Clarke has always been fond of the guy - but they really can't be doing this right now.

Clarke's head is down, letting her scruffy hair cover as much of her face as as she can. She (and it's obvious to anyone standing as close to them as Sinclair is that she is very much a she) feels his eyes pass quickly over her form, probably just from curiosity as to which girl Harper is obviously keen on, she thinks. She's relieved when he shows no indication of recognising her.

"Cadet trainee, sir. Starting this morning", Harper replies without a hint of artifice. "On my way, now".

"Ah. Good good. Happy to know you're keeping us all safe", he smiles. "Have a lovely day, Harper".

And then he's passing them, walking away in the general direction of the Ark Hub where, Clarke thinks but isn't entirely sure, he works.

Just as he's almost out of earshot he adds: " You too, Clarke".

SHITFUCKSHIT!

Clarke panics and tries to pull Harper away as fast as she can but the other girl holds her back and instead encourages them both back into a steady, not hugely suspicious, walking pace. Clarke immediately calms and steadies, because Harper just has that effect on everybody.

"You can trust him, Clarke. You know he's no friend of Jaha or Kane".

They break off silently and walk several feet apart as they hug the far left side of the corridor as it passes the large emergency crash doors of the central Med-Bay. Clarke wonders if her Mom is already in there setting up for another frustrating day of doctoring with a rapidly dwindling supply of medicines and machinery. 

Shit. Then Clarke wonders if, wherever she is, her mom is going to be getting an emergency signal on the secure Council channel of her TAB, just moments from now, informing the Supreme Council member of the daring escape from custody of her violent terrorist daughter.

Which leads to another thought striking her as the two join together again. "Harp, are you carrying your TAB?", she asks, referring to the inch-square ring electronic device that serves as official ID, purveyor of social status, currency transactor, file of life-long medical records and the legally required homing beacon for the Hub's 24/7 monitoring of every citizen's life. (They were also, via multi-terrabyte memory and hard-light projection, conduits of the LinkFeed, the Grid social tool, video-messaging, teaching apps and many other less Big Brothery aspects of everyday life. But right now it was the government tracking fuckery that was the main point of enquiry). 

"Of course". Harper pulls the lapel of the Guard jacket back to show the small ring gadget. "Can't hack it... Raven and Monty have tried... buuuut I might know someone in the Guard surveillance unit who is logging a common tracking fault with my TAB right now.". 

Clarke's sense of reassurance is tested immediately by the hour tone on the TAB bleeping. Seven o'clock. Things are about to get a lot less chill.

**** **** **** ****

Passage through the rest of Med-Station is unproblematic and they now wait at the last major obstacle: Unter Den Linden, the most heavily used thruway between Alpha Station and The Ring, named in wistful jest by the Ark's first Chancellor, Thomas Kerner.

Get across the thruway safely and they are pretty much in the clear. Harper's told her that they need to find a certain storage room in the warren of admin offices and stores units that make up the mini-section between Med-Station and Alpha Station. There they need to wait until 07.30 when Harper will hand Clarke off to her last chaperone, who will guide her to her target.

A target Harper doesn't know, because... compartmentalization, they both guess. If so then Clarke hopes that's a reflection of a more professional insurgency rising from the ashes of the disogranised shambles of Judgement Day.

They stand in shadows on opposite sides of the ring-route, trying to look innocuous to the passing throngs. Harper is using an illegal TAB hack Monty has fixed up to monitor the scrambled Guard frequency. Even from 10 feet away Harper's suddenly sour look informs Clarke that the word is out. She looks out for Guards now and checks the locations of all the cameras.

There's never going to be a good time to try this, Clarke thinks and before she's even aware of it, she's away. Fighting the urge to run, she's ducking in and out of the crowd as she attempts to cross against the larger flows going to and from The Ring. Spilling out of the hood, her hair covers her face as much as she can and her left hand is up 'scratching her ear' as she tries to obscure herself to the camera on the facing wall. But then she's there. She's across without incident and she ducks back into the shadows a couple of stanchions down.

Clarke's as surprised as anyone at her ease of passage but something else is now taking her attention. Something gross and uncomfortable that she really doesn't want Harper to see. She sits down in the shadow, hoping the sticky, red patch slowly spreading down her left thigh won't be obvious through the denim.

Harper's face is a mix of relief, anger and respect when she catches up. She's about to give Clarke a (fairly gentle) roasting for her recklessness when she sees the look on Clarke's face. Her ward is close to tears, her face a mask of shame. Then she sees the cause of that shame staining the crotch of Clarke's prison pants.

"Oh, babe", she says supportively as she sits next to Clarke, close enough she hopes to convince her she's not freaked out.

She takes Clarke's hand again and encourages her to lift her head up and make eye contact. "Do they not issue tampons in Iso?".

Clarke lays her head on Harper's shoulder. "They do, but Valentine's got this weird thing about only issuing your one and only "female sanitary item" (she airquotes) on the second day of your period. Without a blood-stained bed sheet he doesn't want to know".

""Fuck, that guy is a creep", Harper bit. "And today is...?"

"Day 2", Clarke confirmed. "7am roll call, idiot guard throws a tammy at you like it's burning his hand."

Harper can only shake her head at the juvenile idiocy of it all.

"How do you feel?", she asks Clarke with sympathy.

"Gross, Harp. Icky, sticky, wet, cold, hot, flushed, cramped, bloated, hungry, headachey. Dirty." Clarke has her eyes closed. "Ugly".

And then Harper's kissing her. Tenderly at first and then with a little more mind-scrambling pressure. And something else. Possession.

"Fuck that, Clarke. You're the most beautiful girl in this rotten fucking sky hutch".

Clarke bursting into tears for a few seconds at Harper's words comes as somewhat of a surprise to both of them.

"You don't just say shit like that to a hormone case in soiled panties, you idiot", Clarke grins as she wipes away the tears. "And thank you."

Harper is enjoying Clarke's body laying against hers and she really wants to kiss her some more, but there are places they need to be.

"Gotta move, babe. 7.12 and I need to get you to that room by 7.30... And there's something I wanna do first before the contact turns up". 

**** **** **** ****

They're up and moving again with Clarke taking comfort from the fact that their target room is only a couple of blocks more round the ring-route. She's hoping there will be some kind of washing facilities in the room where she can get some relief from the general unpleasantness of her current existence.

At the third arterial turn Harper stops them and checks the dimly lit passage ahead. Confirming to herself she leads Clarke by the hand to the end of the stub corridor, where, to the right, Clarke sees a heavy metal door leading to a stairwell. The door has been (illegally) propped open by a broken length of steel pipe jammed into its base. 

Just as they are about to step through the door, Harper pushes her hard into the corner behind the stubby end wall that hides the door from easy sight. Her back hits the wall hard and a gasp of air is forced from her lungs. The baggie hood helps to soften any contact of wall and head but she's startled even as Harper presses her own body hard into hers, trying to squeeze them both out of sight as much as possible. 

Even as Harper's hand cups her cheek and the girl issues an almost silent "shhhh", Clarke knows what's wrong. She can't see them but she can sense there are two Guards at the top of the short passage they'd just travelled off the ring-route, and they are clearly looking for someone.

Clarke's breathing has never sounded louder to herself. She's trying not to breathe at all but she knows that can lead to hyperventilation, so she concentrates on steadying her breathing, slowing her racing heart and calming her stressed, jumping body. Her efforts are hindered dramatically as two torch beams flash off the door to the room at the end of the hall just a foot or two over from their hiding spot. She hears the word 'kino' in the Guard's excited chatter and her heart freezes. Clarke knows if they launch one of those damnable little flying orb cameras they're as good as caught. From the way Harper's body tenses against her, she hears the threat too.

It's ironic that the old, crumbling, shitty state of the Ark's infrastructure is what saves them. Kinos are resource-heavy to use, especially in the heatseeker mode that would have flushed them out immediately. Thus the two man team - clearly a regular Guard patrol as opposed to a search party - get a negative response on their walkie.

They wait 30 long seconds after their hunters' footsteps fade then they're off the wall and through the door in an instant.

Harper removes the pipe jack and then both girls are immediately trying to hold back the heavy, ancient metal door to stop it slamming loud enough for the whole sector to hear. 

The door groans it's protests with every inch and every metal scream has the girls expecting to see the Guards back. Eventually though it closes forcefully, only to be opened again with a key that Clarke imagines is probably in friendly hands.

Harper sits on the top step of the stairs and tries to calm herself, breathing deeply. Clarke joins her on the step and lays a light but heartfelt kiss on Harper's temple.

"My hero", she whispers, making Harper laugh.

They sit in silence for another minute as Clarke hears Harper's breathing regulate. Before they move again, though, Clarke has a question.

"Harper, how are you not still in the box?", she asks, trying as hard as she can to not make the question sound like an accusation.

Harper seems to take a moment to scan Clarke for exactly that: Any accusation of betrayal. Satisfied Clarke is just curious, she answers with a withering self-hatred. 

"I bent the knee, Clarke". She looks away, unable to look Clarke in the eye. "After four months Jaha came to us via Kane and Valentine with an offer. Repent, recant and rejoin society... Death sentences commuted as long as we promised to behave, not believe in non-state-sanctioned religions and not attempt to violently overthrow their system again.".

"Who's 'we'?, Clarke asks, her understanding and camaraderie a little strained by Harper's answer.

"Only a few of us, actually. Everyone not deemed a threat. Mostly girls, of course, because Callie forbid we could actually understand our own actions and choices on Judgement Day. Some people you'd expect to take any chance to get out: Murphy, Lowe. About 20 of us were offered. From the 94 souls not in Iso".

"Just enough clemency to foster enough resentment and division to destroy the movement from within", Clarke sums up. "Classic anti-insurgency".

Clarke gently but forcefully encourages Harper's shame-filled eyes to meet her own again.

"And some of you took the deal?'

"Yes, Clarke." It's harsh and defensive, and Harper is withdrawing as much as possible from Clarke's space. "After a lot of infighting and recriminations, everybody in turn went on the LinkFeed and renounced the faith, apologized for ever questioning our glorious, enlightened society and pledged eternal allegiance to our Dear Leader".

"Blake?", Clarke asked, her mind trying to piece all the oddly-shaped pieces of this together.

"Yeah. Bellamy was one of those offered. Which is weird, right? Because he was a damn squad leader on J Day".

"Yeah, it's weird. Jaha wouldn't do that. This smells of Ka... no!", it hits Clarke. "Sydney. Thus is Diana fucking Sydney through and through."

"Whoever...", Harper says sadly, looking anywhere but at Clarke. "They asked me to betray my comrades and my faith and I did".

There's a moment of strained, tense silence between them before Harper feels Clarke reclaiming her hand between both of hers. "Hey, hey, hey... You did the right thing, Harp. All of you that were offered. I'd have done the same."

Harper just makes a non-committal grunt that sounds a bit like "Yeah?".

"And do you know who else would have taken the deal?", Clarke asks, aware she is talking to a fifteen year old girl (who is now her like, totally official Girlfriend, right????) with the same soothing, condescending tone she reserves for Charlotte when she is trying to encourage the 8 year old to eat her soy mush ("tastes like ass") or not swear quite so fucking much. "Callie".

At the name Harper closes her eyes and quietly touches the third finger of her right hand to the middle of her forehead just above her eyebrows. She silently breathes a short mantra. 

They both recognise Clarke's tactic: positive reinforcement laced with just a little cynical manipulation.

"Ya think?", Harper replies in an exaggerated tone that indicates she's not buying this.

"Of course", Clarke smiles. "You think the great Caliope, First of the Flame, blessed be her name, would rot in jail when she could get back to the fight... whatever her captors motives?".

Harper scans Clarke's face for any intended mockery of the woman, the legend... yes, even the deity, she supposes, who has been Harper's guiding light and shield for a decade. She finds none. Clarke is being her usual flippant but heartfelt self.

"Or would Callie calmly rebuild the fire and burn out the rotten fucking system from the inside?"

Clarke starts to break up her speech with soft kisses. She peppers Harper's forehead and both cheeks with light butterfly kisses.

"I think Callie would stand against the system by pushing her love, her faith, her science. I think she'd fight everyday in ways those old assholes in charge can't even see."

Clarke kisses Harper once on the lips. Quick, fleeting and chaste.

"And for the record, I think Callie would totally advance her revolution by breaking hot chicks out of Isolation cells..."

Harper's smiling freely again now, as Clarke's kisses become feral and possessive.

"And then Callie would take a minute or two to totally make out with that same hot chick in an abandoned stairwell".

"Sure", Harper deadpans. "Makes total sense."

**** **** **** ****

*(SOUNDTRACK: Tiffany - I Think We're Alone Now)*

**** **** **** ****

So that's what they do. They make out in an abandoned stairwell, to Clarke's great delight. And she enjoys all 75 to 80 seconds of it before Harper breaks off the kiss and she's literally dragging Clarke by the hand down the stairs to level 2 and left out of the door. Another half minute of running and Harper has them at their required destination. She taps a four digit code into the door lock and they step through into what is clearly a dumping room for Sci-Gov janitorial. Tables, chairs, filing cabinets and several shelving units full of office detritus and cleaning supplies take up most of the wall space. A large table fills the middle of the room. A fairly thick layer of dust covers most open surfaces.

Harper thinks they have about five minutes before Clarke's next escort arrives and she intends to maximize that time.

Clarke is through the door first and has not fully finished her instant assessment of the room before she feels the animal thrill of Harper... claiming her?! It's the only word Clarke can think of that fits. She feels Harper's breasts in her back and her lips colonizing the back of her neck.

They're both struggling - and actually working against each other in their haste they soon realise - to get the damn boy jacket off Clarke. It takes 3 or 4 very long seconds without Harper's touch for Clarke to finally twist out the damn thing (seriously, it's a fracking tent) and let it drop to the floor with a satisfying thunk. Then Harper's back on her in an instant and Clarke does something she's not sure she's ever done before; she surrenders... completely... to the girl setting her body on fire.

She cedes control and agency in a way she never even contemplated before... *this*...

Before what Harper is making her feel right now.

Because even now her overpowered mind is trying to quantify the magnitude of awesome that is 'making out with Harper' (It's eleven). But then Clarke thinks that maybe that stupid nerd brain is not really up to doing some math at this point. Because it's not 11. It's 42.

Right here, right now, everything is 42. So farewell and thanks for all the fish.

But, again, it's not. Because that *is* nerdy. And stupid and childish. The past. And this feels beyond that. This feels like so much more.

The first feeling of Harper's hand on her clothed boob - which is, of course, also the first feeling of anyone's hand on her boob - is a sudden shocking correction to the naive assumptions that Clarke has felt up until, like right now. 

Because this is not anything she could have quantified before. 

This is not kissing Callie Davies at 12. Tentative. Exploratory. Scared. Two confused little girls mutually making excuses. 

That was good. That was 11.

This is not Ginny Cheng at 13. Nervous. Turbulent. Resentful. Painfully public. Infamous and plastic and thoroughly unreal but no less sexy and vital for any of that.

That was great (for all it's issues). That was 42. 

This is Harper MacIntyre at 15. A woman. A friend. A lover. This is maturity and Womanhood. This is her sexuality. Her identity. A chance for her to meet a new, real Clarke Griffin, almost certainly for the first time. This is beyond. This is her now. This is her future. 

This is not 11. It's not 42. It's turtles.

Turtles all the fucking way down.

Particularly now when her own hand has found it's way to a boob and it feels so good and natural and fulfilling that honestly Clarke thinks she might just die this very second.

And as her eyes close and she struggles to remember to breathe (probably important) and she just wants this moment to never stop and "Y U LIE, REYES????" is all she can think because those warnings of the unbearable bleakness of this day seem foolish against the now undeniable cold hard fact that this is THE BEST DAY OF CLARKE GRIFFIN'S LIFE!

**** **** **** ****

With, she hopes, just the right level of sexy force (because really she's not that experienced and she has no idea), Harper pushes Clarke against the wall and her mouth is on the girl's neck in an instant. She tongues the beating pulse point and surges with an animalistic pride as she feels the heartbeat racing under her touch. Harper's heart is full to bursting as she feels Clarke's desperate ragged panting breath roaring in her ear.

And one of the flashing microbursts of useless opinion, discovery and questions that flash up unwanted through every other screaming sense has her questioning if this is what makes boys her age so dumb, so smug, so cocky, so fearful, so reckless? Is the innate knowledge that this is what they could be doing (should be doing?) to any girl or boy of their choosing what makes teenage boys so insufferable? Shit, is this why they start wars? Because, yeah... this feels primal. Mitochondrial. Right.

And maybe she gets it a little. Gets how feeling *this*, wanting *this* again and again can become the overwhelming drive motivator of someone's life. Because someone like Finn Collins is still a seriously smug douche but maybe his insufferable attitude is just a fraction understandable if he's ever made whoever he's into come undone like this. Ever shared Harper's current sense of power and satisfaction that comes from reducing the hottest girl on the Ark to panting, shameless, desperate... beautiful... lust. 

Oh and poetry too. Add that to the list. Because in this moment, feeling Clarke’s abs spasm under the warm smoothing of her eager palm, Harper totally fucking gets poetry.

And hey, when did they get switched around? When did Clarke push her away and twist her around and push her back against the wall and take back her power and... fuck, Harper doesn't care.

Because Clarke Griffin’s hand is on her boob and Clarke Griffin’s tongue is in her mouth and Clarke Griffin’s body is mutually yielding to hers in ways so new and beautiful and breathtaking that Harper never wants these moments, these sensations, these emotions, this belonging and utter fucking righteousness to ever, ever stop and this is all happening in seconds that feel like lifetimes… and then it’s gone.

And she just wants to fucking scream and scream forever as every glorious sensation drops away the instant she hears the pincode being entered on the FUCK FUCK FUCK SHIT FUCK BOLLOCKING STUPID FUCKING DOOR!

Her hand drops from Clarke’s boob and out from under the shirt but she keeps kissing, determined to drag out every last fractional micro-second of *this*… this glory… this better existence… this everything.

Fuck this place.

Fuck the Ark.

Fuck whoever is about to walk through that fucking door.

Fuck that door.

Fuck everything.

**** **** **** ****

Clarke's entire world is a sensual overload of touch and smell and taste and sound and all of it is woman. All of it is Harper.

Everything.

Eternal and never enough.

But then Harper's hand isn't on her boob anymore and she's even pulling her shirt down in a panic and the moment is clearly over as Clarke too now hears the last of the four digits being entered into the door. Everything happy and beautiful and glorious dies in an instant as she reluctantly pulls away from Harper's hot (in every sense) body.

Instantly, every overpowering sense of heat and sex and danger and maturity and confidence is gone replaced by the returning feelings of fear and ugliness and gross, cold wetness (not the good kind) and anxiety and uncertainty and fuck it, this all feels a lot like grief. And suddenly rage. Definitely rage. Instant surging rage that threatens to burn her up as she reels round to confront the very familiar face now smiling at her.

"WELLS CORNELIUS JAHA...", she positively growls. "Goddamn it, I could slap the shit out of you right now".

But if there's one virtue of his that Clarke knows she can always rely on, it's Wells' unerring politeness. (His unswerving I'd-Die-For-You loyalty is just a nice bonus).

"Uh... It's lovely to see you too, Pooh", he says, somewhat taken aback, even if he's trying not to show it. This very much not being the reunion he'd expected.

He does at least have the good grace to quickly take in the panting flush on both girls faces and the loose, rumpled state of their clothing and work out what he's just walked in on.

"Oh...", he starts, before the full realisation hits him. "OH! Sorry. Fuck. Sorry. Should've knocked. Sorry. Shit".

And now Clarke feels bad and this is all stupid, she thinks.

"Okay. Stop", Clarke says, her heart rate slowing and breathing levelling out. "Start again... Hi, Eeyore. Shit timing but thank you for coming. I missed you". And she moves in for one of the big bear hugs she's spent so many a cold lonely night thinking of. The hugs that have always made her feel safe, secure and loved.

And it makes Clarke laugh that even as he's hugging her he's also talking over her head, trying to right all his 'wrongs'.

"Hey, Harps", Wells smiles in greeting to the girl tucking her Guard shirt back into her pants. "Sorry".

"No biggie, Wells". And even if her body is still vibrating a little in it's sudden denial and her voice is still ragged, panting and broken, Harper can't help but smile back. She's always liked the big lug. "Jobs to do. Society to overthrow", she croaks.

Clarke breaks the hug. "So... I'm being handed over again. Any paperwork you need filling in, Ee?", she teases him, nodding her head toward the items he's carried in with him.

"Oooh.." he almost shouts, as though it's a big surprise to himself. "I bring gifts!", he says and hands her a flat gift "wrapped" in tattered, tearing one-ply toilet paper. 

"Happy birthday, Pooh".

She knows exactly what it is. It's a new iteration of the same thing Wells has given her for the last five years. Ten to twelve pages of salvaged paper, bound into an almost-book, to tell a story Wells writes and Charlotte passionately illustrates with her heartfelt, childish, beautiful drawings. And she knows she'll love it, because she was always does - even the times the story seems very familiar - because Wells has blurred the lines between homage for the late 20th century action movies he and Charlotte both love and straight up plagiarism of same - or the times Charlotte has to patiently explain - in great sweary detail, naturally - exactly what is being illustrated in her free-spirited glorious mess of ill-matching shapes and colours. 

She treasures the books because they are made with love by two of the people she loves most. 

"Thanks, Ee", she says and kisses him on the cheek.

Wells smiles and holds up an old and well-used black plastic bag.

"And this is from Raven. Said it was very important I give it to you and then make myself scarce."

Clarke looks in the bag Wells hands her. This is immediately followed by a very un-Clarke-like squeal that has Harper a little concerned. 

"Clarke?"

In response Clarke proudly displays in turn a fresh new panty-liner, a dry, mostly clean washcloth and a bottle of mid-500R water.

"Aww... It's like all your Unity Days have come at once", Harper says with a broad grin. "Go Raven".

The huge grin on Clarke's face is all the affirmative response Harper needs. Clarke looks happier than she thinks she's ever seen her. 

Both girls are clearly touched by the mechanic's thoughtfulness.

"Reyes said to make sure you found everything in the bag", Wells adds. "Said it was important. Would kick my ass if I didn't tell you that".

Clarke reaches in and sure enough there's a smaller bag she hadn't seen, black on black.

She pulls it out, feels the contents. Checks again because it couldn't actually be... 

Then Clarke entirely loses her shit.

"OHMIGOGOHMIGODOHMIGODOHMIGOD!"

Harper is by her side in an instant.

"Wha..." and the question isn't even fully formed before she sees the pair of pristine white cotton panties Clarke is just... gawping at in disbelief.

"HOLY FUCK".

Wells is utterly lost as he watches probably the two smartest young women he knows going batshit crazy over underwear. 

"I don't get it. They're just pa..."

"Dude, the last time I had new panties, I was... " Clarke struggles to think. "Shit! I was seven, Wells".

Harper seems positively giddy. "Clarke these aren't Resyk... I think these are original stores!"

Clarke had thought the same but didn't dare vocalise it. Original stores. The Earth-made supplies that stocked the twelve space stations that formed the Ark two years after the fall of Man. Hundred year old goods so rare now that they carry a legendary mystique.

"How does Raven even have these?", Clarke thinks aloud". "Do you think she killed Nygel and took her contraband?"

"Why the fuck don't I get new panties?" Harper whines theatrically. "I guess I'll have to get myself sent to ISO for a year, huh?"

"Ha!... Four months in GenPop gets you nothing, you part-timer".

Meanwhile, Wells is still feeling like he is surrounded by crazy people. "It's a pair of panties...?"

"It is the SIXTH pair of panties I have owned in my life, Wells, and only the second pair not made out of other people's panties and other recycled textile garbage. It's a big deal, Ee."

Wells accepts that because he can clearly see that it IS a big deal even if he doesn't know why. He's also got another thought on his mind.

"You really own six pairs of panties?", he asks, quoting the number with an awe that suggests Clarke had spoken of six thousand pairs.

Harper clutches Clarke's arm in horror.

"Oh, no.. no...no... Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask..."

But Clarke has to. Because at heart she's a scientist and like the best medical research this just got repulsively fascinating real fast.

"How many pairs of underwear do you own, Wells?"

"I dunno, like... three?" (And it's very much a question).

"How... ", and she can see Harper furiously shaking her head and she doesn't want to freak out her girlfriend (Yeah, definitely her girlfriend now, thank you very much) any more than Harper is already icked the fuck out, but... this is entirely too fascinating for Clarke... "How often do you change your underpants, Ee?"

He shrugs. "Like... I wear em for two weeks. Turn them inside out, two more weeks. New pair at start of the month".

The girls are squealing with outrage before he can even finish the sentence.

Harper has her eyes squeezed shut and is making exaggerated sobbing motions and repeating the word "EW!", while Clarke is almost breathless in her disgust:

"ohmygodboysaresofuckinggrosshowcanyouevenwells...????"

"Pigs!" Harper states categorically. "All of you... just... pigs!"

The sound of two separate TAB alarms brings them out of their reverie. They all know they need to get this back on track.

"Anyway, Ee... out. Go look innocent in the corridor, please". Clarke says. "So I can..."

She holds the bag up and makes a vague waving gesture to a space at the back of the room where a group of discarded filing cabinets create a little cubby of privacy.

Wells looks still more confused but then his mind finally connects the wash-bag, the sanitary towel and the dark stain on the prison pants he's only now noticing. He realises why Clarke wants privacy and suddenly can't get out of the room fast enough.

"Okay i'm gonna wait outside we've got four minutes or so before we need to move so please hurry or don't hurry and do what you need to do and shit sorry sorry sorry". He breathes, almost in one word. Then he's out the door.

Harper's head-shaking assessment is a simple one: "Boys", she sighs.

Clarke smiles. "Right?".

Clarke makes her way behind the filing cabinets and bends down to assess how she can do this without making Harper feel like she has to turn her back on her. But Harper's moved. She's taking a small jar off one of the full, jumbled shelves. She sniffs the contents of the jar and Clarke hears the triumphantly-hissed "Yes!" from the other side of the room.

"I got soap powder, babe", Harper shouts. "Catch", she shouts as an empty plastic container bounces close to Clarke's foot. A couple of old toweling cloth rags follow straight after.

Catching on, Clarke makes an instant assessment of how much water she'll need and pours what she can spare into the new container.

Then Harper's there with two small plastic cups of powder and what looks very much like an old school pumice stone.

"Pants, babe".

Clarke steps out of sight and peels the cold icky mess of prison denim off her thighs and down over her feet. She passes the pants over the top of the filing cabinet and watches with gratitude as Harper walks a few feet to the big table where she spreads the soap powder, douses a little water and starts scrubbing the pants like a banshee.

Clarke takes another moment to admire Raven's gift. She runs a thumb over the simple white cotton. Placing them down reverently, she peels off the panties she's worn for the past three days. They haven't been white for a long time but they are in a spectacularly gross way now. She folds and places them in Raven's bag and sprinkles the small remainder of Harper's washing powder on top before tying off and shaking the bag. If this day ends up going the way she is increasingly feeling it will, she'll have plenty of time to wash them where she's going. 

Squatting down, Clarke wets the cloth and starts washing herself down. The relief of feeling clean for the first time in days is palpable. 

"I don't know what the plans are for you after I leave this room", Harper half-shouts, while still scrubbing furiously. "But I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little concerned the future of Humanity might one day rest in the hands of a couple of nerds who call each other Eeyore and Pooh.

Clarke straightens up and starts drying herself with one of the towel rags.

""Nah. Read the books, girl. Pooh's a badass General and Eeyore's the most loyal Lieutenant you could ask for. Honestly, as far as Humanity's champions go, you could do a lot worse than Clarke and Wells. Which, yes, I realise sounds like a 1980's ill-matched buddy cop show".

Clarke attaches the pad inside the new panties and steps in. They feel amazing and she can't resist a few kick and dimly recalled ballet stretches as she enjoys her little feeling of luxury.

She walks over to Harper and kisses her cheek as she joins her at the table. "You're a star, Harps. Thank you so much for doing this", she says as she admires Harper's handiwork. The dark stain is still visible on the outside of the pants but the inside leg has been scrubbed clean and Harper is attaching the dry towel rag to the inside seem which will keep the wet denim off her thighs too.

"Done", Harper states with satisfaction and shakes out the pants before holding them open on the floor for Clarke to step into. "It's a crappy gift, but there you are. Here's your slightly cleaner prison uniform. Happy Birthday."

It's silly and a little self-pitying but Clarke knows that's how Harper always gets when she has to say goodbye. Clarke hugs the girl close even as she maneuvers them toward her pile of discarded clothes. She kisses her forcefully. "Your birthday gift to me was all the time I got to spend with you today, Harper MacIntyre".

That makes Harper choke back a little sob, which she covers up by claiming Clarke's lips again and doing what both girls want to be doing in their last few moments together.

Clarke's pleasure can't be allowed to last of course (because, if this hasn't been made clear yet... FUCK THE ARK) and their passion is apparently always destined to be interrupted by big teddy bear friends and stupid spy shenanigan deadlines. All she wants is to spend the rest of her birthday kissing (with possibly a little light groping) Harper, but noooo... that's just not how jailbreaks work, apparently.

This time there's a distinct tapping on the metal door and Clarke shouts "yeah" before she hears the code being entered again. Wells steps back into the room to find that this time no attempt is being made to hide what the girls are doing. Rather, he's standing there awkwardly with Clarke's finger in his face as she stretches out every last second of Harper kissage.

Harper reluctantly ends the kiss and shifts the embrace to one where their foreheads are touching, their bodies still joined. Quietly, with wavering voice she utters a short blessing for a girl she knows doesn't really believe it: "May the Flame keep you from darkness, may Becca guide your travels and may Callie protect your love and your home".

Clarke steals one last kiss. "May we meet again", she breathes.

And then Harper is gone and it takes Clarke has to suppress a huge jagged sob that racks her body. She takes a few long moments to ward off the threat of totally losing it and manages to collect herself. She's halfway through silently lacing up her boots before Wells speaks.

"You okay, Pooh?"

Finishing tying her boots, Clarke stands and pulls the mech jacket around her. "Not really, buddy. Come on, we've got a date with Vera Kane".

Wells is wide-eyed in the endearingly naive way she remembers so often from childhood. He's always been a terrible liar.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that assumption".

Clarke laughs. "Okay".

She picks up her book and bag of soiled panties (and the bag of used towels which will go down the centralized laundry chute down the corridor), scans the room for any incriminating evidence and then joins Wells standing at the door. "Out with it, then".

"What?", he asks.

"Whatever cheesy line you've been bursting to say for the last half hour, Wells Jaha".

He starts to deny it but realises Clarke knows him too well. He looks down for a moment then makes overly-dramatic eye contact. In the worst Germanic accent she's ever heard, Wells says:

"Come with me if you want to live".

Clarke can't repress the laugh his over-emoted nonsense inspires and she gratefully acknowledges that Wells' silliness has lifted her mood out of a bad place yet again, just as it has all her life. 

As he opens the door, Clarke reaches up and playfully cuffs his ear. "You're an idiot", she says, with deep affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took about a week longer than I expected it to.
> 
> Kino technology is lifted straight from the excellent and underrated 'Stargate: Universe'.
> 
> I guess I'm a shitty writer of sex scenes, so I might try to separate any future sexy times into their own chapters that people can skip if they want to. 
> 
> Don't want to seem sad, desperate and pathetic but I am sad, desperate and pathetic and this series of stories as laid out looks like it's going to be a major undertaking, eating up a lot of the next few months of my life. I enjoy writing (although the last third of this chapter was a long grind) but I already know the story :)
> 
> I guess what I'm pitifully trying to say is if you have taken a chance on this story and it seems like something you might wanna stick with then maybe take a second to let me know in the comments.
> 
> I'm looking into getting back onto tumblr after several years away, if it ever looked like a blog related to this story might be popular enough to be something worth doing.
> 
> Thanks. Yay! 100 night. Back to enjoying the show after a slow start to S7. I loved the Anaconda episode and desperately hope the show gets the green light. Hell, I'd pay good money for a 'Wacky Post-Apocalyptic Adventures of Becca & Callie" show. 
> 
> Kinda hoping we get further cameos from Becca (while she was off in the white light of the spaceball), Callie and Lexa either before or as part of the finale.
> 
> Thanks for reading and "quia nunc vale".


	6. UPDATE 22/02/21

To my 6 readers!

Thank you.

This story is not dead. I'm making time to write this story as best I can. It will not let me rest until it is EXPUNGED from my soul!

There's going to be a slight rewrite of the first four chapters ('a remix' with additions rather than a full rewrite) then hopefully fairly regular updates of the new stuff.

If you've tried this before - and especially if you left kudos or comments - I hope you'll come back and see what's next.

Thanks.


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